


Forgive me Lord / one step above dirt

by isissa



Category: Moral Orel
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Blood, Daddy Issues, Drinking, Dubious Consent, Emetophilia, Hurt/Comfort, Kissing, M/M, Masochism, Religion, Rough Kissing, dubcon, sin - Freeform, sinning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-20
Updated: 2018-03-20
Packaged: 2019-04-05 00:14:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14031957
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/isissa/pseuds/isissa
Summary: "shout out to guys named clay, that's like one step above dirt."when taking out his depression and father issues on his family doesn't work, Clay goes to the Reverend. teen and up, gore and sexual themes. dubious consent is a big theme.





	Forgive me Lord / one step above dirt

The only thing Clay hated more than waking up in the morning, was going to his dead end job, and the only thing he hated more than that was when the buzz of his morning highball left and he had to find a way to drink at his desk. The only thing he hated more than sneaking sips of gin while his assistant wasn’t looking was when his assistant handed him stacks of paper, no paperweights, and demanded he read through them.

Flick, flick, stamp. Flick, stamp. Flick, flick, stamp. It was all meaningless. None of it meant anything. But Clay couldn’t stop himself. Flick, flick, stamp.

His assistant had come into the room with a familiar manilla folder in her hand. He groaned, grit his teeth and swished the gin around the back of his mouth for a few moments. Despite drinking almost every day, it still burned when he let it dance on the back of his tongue for too long. He swallowed and flicked his eyes up to her.

Her voice cut through the hum of the fan on the ceiling, shrill and irritating. “You didn’t get the reverend to sign this.”

Clay felt a small flame of anger burn in the pit of his stomach. This was normal, the urge to strike her just for opening her whore lips was normal. He reached out lazily with a hand and flicked through the pages in the folder, clicking his tongue. “I have to go to Putty to fix this, then?”

“Yes Mr Puppington.” Her shrill voice droned, her eyes drifted for a moment as if she was about to roll her eyes at him. Clay’s jaw tensed a little more.

“Fine,” he picked up his gin, swallowed all of it that he could manage, then reached under his desk for a bottle of scotch. His assistant narrowed her eyes at him in a disapproving, but somewhat maternal way which made Clay even angrier.

“Should you be driving?”

“Shouldn’t you be shutting the hell up?” Clay spat, unscrewing the bottle of scotch and taking a few heady sips.

His assistant shrugged, moving out of his way so Clay didn’t need to push past her. She sat on the edge of the desk and watched him storm out, folder in hand.

 

\--

 

The breaks in the mayor’s car screeched outside the church, coming to a definitive halt. Clay opened the door and slinked out of the car, folder in one hand and scotch bottle fisted in the other. As he strode into the church, the glint of the statue of jesus on the cross at the front of the building throwing him off his stride, Clay swallowed thickly. The fire that burned in the pit of his stomach was being continuously fuelled by the alcohol he continued to sip down the back of his throat.

The reverend was in his office, staring at the wall, until he heard Clay shove the door open and walk in. For a moment, the Reverend couldn’t tear his gaze away from the wall but he quickly came to his senses. He looked the mayor up and down, taking in the way he walked uncertainly, his flushed cheeks and somewhat concerning smirk.

“You need to sign these.” Puppington ordered, rather than asked, slamming the folder down on Putty’s desk. The Reverend didn’t move from his seat, and made no attempt to extend a greeting towards Clay. Since their argument in the bar, their relationship as professionals had been strained. It was hard to work with a man who spat on your self image every chance he got.

But still, he thought, Clay was a very sad man. It was projection, and he knew it, even if no one would say it. Everyone in town knew that Clay would take out his anger on whoever was closest. There were no secrets in Moralton.

Putty pressed his lips together in displeasure, reading over the blank spaces on the page he had to fill. “You want me to start reporting what we get in the donation tray?”

In response, Puppington raised his eyebrows expectantly. That was a yes, not that Clay would offer him the respect of simply speaking to him.

Rod closed his eyes and nodded absently. “Fine, fine, okay. You could do me the service of addressing me once in a while, Clay.”

Like venom from the lips, Rod had spat that out without thinking, and a quick intake of breath on his part indicated regret. Clay, on the other hand, began to laugh.

It was cold, mocking, and it made Putty a little bit uncomfortable.

“Alright, Reverend. Feeling a little insecure, are we?”

That was blunt. Putty swallowed thickly, casting his eyes deliberately downwards. Clay circled round to the Reverend’s side like a shark.

“Can’t handle being ignored, is that it?”

Playing into this was a terrible idea; it never ended well. “I’ve got to work on this, can I take it to your office this afternoon?”

Speaking past each other, Clay continued. “It doesn’t feel nice when people ignore you, does it Rod? You can’t stand the fact that no woman in Moralton would even _look_ at you.”

Rod felt a tinge of anger run through his torso. He swallowed again, evening out his breathing. “I think it’s time you leave, Clay. I can drive you back to work.”

Clay withdrew, pulling the discarded scotch off of Putty’s desk and waving it to punctuate his sentence. “This? You think I can’t handle my liquor? I’m not weak.”

“Clay,”

“I’m not like _you._ ”

“I’m going to call your wife.” The Reverend stood up to walk to the phone, but Clay grabbed his wrist. Putty’s eyebrows furrowed. He was afraid of confrontation, but he wasn’t powerless, and unlike Clay, Rod was sober.

“That’d be like you.” Clay whispered. His volume raised sharply with his next sentence, stepping forward and leaning into the Reverend’s face. “Think a woman can fix your problems?!”

Rod could smell the alcohol on his breath, and tried to pull his wrist away from Clay. In response, the drunken man pushed Rod against the back wall of his office, pinning him there. The scotch bottle fell to the ground and spilled as Clay used both hands to restrain the Reverend.

It suddenly became apparent to Rod all too quickly that Clay had twenty years on him. Frightened, he pushed back against Clay, pushing off the wall and trying to walk Clay back out of the office. They didn’t get far, because they tripped on the discarded Scotch bottle, falling to the floor. The carpet grazed parts of Clay’s back where his shirt had ridden up in the struggle and he groaned.

Putty took advantage of the spin in Clay’s alcohol fogged mind to grab both his wrists and pin them to the floor, straddling Clay’s hips. The aroma of scotch and gin filled the Reverend’s nose and clouded his thoughts, a fire burned in his stomach and he clenched his fist.

“Gonna hit me?”

Putty obliged, egged on by Clay’s condescending smirk, feeling himself lose control as he punched him squarely on the face.

Clay blinked, and the Reverend clenched his fist tighter, feeling the tingle of the hit in his knuckles. The man below’s eyes sparkled dangerously, a smile lifting his lips. “Hitting me feel good?” A trickle of blood began to seep from Clay’s nose.

Putty felt a pang of revulsion hit him, he wanted to get up and leave Clay reeling on the floor but felt himself frozen, rooted to the spot. Clay stared at him with an intensity that left Putty feeling claustrophobic.

“What?” Rod breathed, taking in the way Clay looked at him.

“Hit me, do it.” Clay urged him. “Come on, hit me. Fucking hit me.”

Putty froze, his body tensing up. He felt the need to vomit, though he didn’t know why.

“Hit me, you fucking virgin. You pathetic excuse for a man. Or do you want to just call my wife? Have a woman save you?” Clay paused, inspecting the pained look on the Reverend’s face. He tried to change tactics. “You’re sixty now, Putty, you’re never going to have a wife.”

Rod couldn’t hold eye contact anymore. “Shut up, Puppington.”

Clay laughed again, and it sent shivers of revulsion down the Reverend’s spine. “What, did you want a family too? A son?” The mayor teased, eyes wide with disbelief. “You thought you could raise a child? Pathetic! Talk to me about fatherhood, Reverend, I’ll tell you all about it. I gave up everything for my kid. My happiness, my sanity. You could never do that.”

The Reverend breathed slowly and evenly, forcing the fire in his stomach to dwindle, little by little.

“You’d make a terrible father.” Clay smirked. “You’re only good for one thing. You’re a priest. And you’re not even good at that.”

_Lord, please forgive me for this._

Rod looked Clay squarely in the face and swung his fist again, striking the man’s jaw and making Clay cry out in pain.

Clay didn’t try to escape, or move, he just grinned wickedly. “That’s it, you big man. Hit me! Show me you’re more than just a puppet for God’s will!”

Putty struck him again and again, taking away the hand that held Clay down to punch him with both fists. Clay’s eyes were wide with delight in all of this, disgustingly lucid and joyous. Putty’s shaking body suddenly felt itself being thrown slightly backwards as Clay sat up, blood dripping from his mouth and nose, red marks across his face and neck.

The movement caught Putty so off guard that he didn’t react as it happened, Clay’s hands intertwining through the back of his hair and pulling their faces closer, Clay’s lips meeting the Reverend’s in an unholy kiss.

A few seconds into the kiss, Rod worked out what had happened, though his head was spinning wildly from the adrenaline and sheer ridiculousness of it all. Clay pressed their chests together and Rod tasted blood in his mouth, sharp and metallic, a stark contrast to Clay’s soft lips. He cried out, muffled by their intertwined mouths and pushed Clay off him roughly, spitting out second hand blood and spit into the space between them. Rod’s eyes glanced down, he was straddling Clay’s hips, and Clay still had his hands around his sides, holding them close.

“What in God’s name – Clay?!”

Clay’s eyes were cloudy, drifting somewhat and filled with lust. The Reverend couldn’t process the situation at all, the drunken man’s hands burning into his sides. Clay leaned forward again, searching for another embrace, and the Reverend found himself leaning into it.

_Please forgive me Lord, I don’t know what I’m doing._

Their lips met, and Putty wrapped his wrists loosely around Clay’s neck. The taste of blood awakened something primal in Putty’s mind, his hands searching for purchase on Clay’s hair. He pulled on it sharply, making Clay yelp and move with Rod’s hand, exposing the bruises forming on his neck.

Putty felt drunk, out of control, like he was in a dream. He released Clay’s hair to slap him across the face, taking delight in the expression Clay offered him. It was laced with lust and sin, and Putty felt the elation of breaking rules, spitting in God’s face, the same lust he felt in his past hook-ups with women but it was so much stronger.

Rod shifted as he felt Clay’s hand travel down his side to his legs, wanting to lean into his touch, tugging loosely on Clay’s hair as he lapped at the man’s alcohol soaked lips. Clay’s hand travelled dangerously close to the priest’s crotch, which made him freeze up in alarm. Clay noticed after a few moments and regret and guilt washed over him.

Putty felt revulsion again, intense and all-too real, he slid backwards across the carpet and felt bile rise in his throat. He couldn’t speak, he could barely move, and when he shifted he felt his hard on rub against the fabric of his trousers. It made him vomit.

Actually, really this time. He leaned forward and began to vomit.

Clay shrunk backwards, body shaking, unable to approach the Reverend as he heaved again and again, trying to hold in the vomit his body was expelling out onto his office floor. He sat, staring, unmoving, for minutes as the Reverend shook, cursing under his breath. After an eternity, Putty stood, reaching for the water on his desk, washing it down with a face that screamed displeasure and disgust.

Clay couldn’t move, his heart beat wildly in his chest, blood dripped down onto his shirt, and the carpet. His scalp tingled. Despite everything, and not knowing why, he still felt the urge to hold the Reverend down and kiss him, disgustingly and passionately, mixing their bodily fluids and taking out the rage he felt as the world and his life on his priest.

Putty, leaning heavily on his desk, clasped his hands together, and prayed. Clay felt sick. He felt betrayed. How dare God do this to him. Tempt him like this, give him the gift of the Reverend striking him and then tear it away. He wanted to scream, punch things, drink until he passed out, but instead he just sat, blood flowing freely, and watched the reverend silently pray.

Putty finally stood up straight, looking down at Clay in disgust, his arms wrapped around his own chest defensively as if cradling himself.

“Get _out._ ”

Clay scrambled to his feet. He walked backwards, slamming into the door with his back. He couldn’t look away from the Reverend as he struggled with the door handle behind him. They only broke eye contact when he was out the door.

Clay drove home, rushed past Bloberta, into his study, and vomited. He washed down the scent of bile and blood with alcohol, and passed out.

 

**Author's Note:**

> during the episode where clay begs the reverend, papermouth, and doctor to beat the shit out of him, i developed a bit of an affinity for the idea of clay going out of his way to make men (particularly older men) hurt him for pleasure. hence the dubious consent. the reverend didn't know Clay was getting off on it. you can read the reverend as either bisexual, or heterosexual and just touch-starved in this fic, it doesn't really matter.  
> i like putting at the end of fics that involve dubious consent and sexuality that none of this is romantic, and shouldn't be glorified or recreated IRL. 
> 
> i love thinking of fic ideas for moral orel but I dont want orel to suffer ever so if i ever do more of these you can probably expect it to be clay being an awful person lmao


End file.
